


the moon is full and so are we

by yeswayappianway



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Costume Parties & Masquerades, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-09
Updated: 2019-01-09
Packaged: 2019-10-01 06:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17239043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeswayappianway/pseuds/yeswayappianway
Summary: “Why?” Claude challenged, stepping up to him. “It’s what you do to other ships, why can’t I do it to you?”A hand grabbed his arm, and Kris didn’t break eye contact as he said, “Because we can make life very hard for you and your crew.”“You gonna make me?” Claude grinned. It would be a disaster if he had to fight them both, but let them make their own assumptions. He’d been itching for a good fight anyway.





	the moon is full and so are we

**Author's Note:**

  * For [remiges](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remiges/gifts).



> you said "Marc-Andre Fleury/Claude Giroux/Kris Letang - SPACE PIRATES. Or actual pirates." and i just... ran with it.
> 
> this is a treat. as such, it a) is not beta-ed, b) is also kind of a mess, c) can best be described as 'plot followed by abandoning the plot in favor of porn', and d) is not any sort of attempt at historical accuracy of any kind. pirates are for id-fic, right?
> 
> title from Seven Deadly Sins, by Flogging Molly. because pirates.

_Once upon a time, there was a ship named the Flyer. No one gave a shit about it until it was attacked by pirates. In fact, most people didn’t give a shit about them even after they were attacked, and certainly the attacking pirates didn’t. They crippled the ship, ran onboard, stole some boring trade goods, and left, probably because there was nothing worth taking. The Flyer’s long, limping journey to the nearest island killed several of the men on board, but they made it, although the ship was retired afterwards. The shipping company that owned it decided to cut their losses. It wasn’t a heavily crewed ship at the time, several of its best sailors—including its captain—had left to change careers, so in general, most people still didn’t give a shit. Except one person. The navigator-in-training had nowhere else to go, having run away to join the crew of the Flyer. So, when everyone else had scattered and the ship was torn apart for scrap and repairs to other boats, the only one left standing to mourn was Claude._

\-----

“Captain? We’ve spotted the Steelbird,” Wayne said. Claude nodded, and looked back down at his map.

“Alright, if we head east a bit, we can coast along behind these cliffs,” Claude said, pointing them out on the map. “And then we can catch the wind and speed into their path over here,” he jabbed one of the marked trade routes.

Wayne hesitated, frowning. “Uh… they’re actually following us.”

“What?” Claude said, astounded.

“They seem to have been waiting for us. We think they probably think we’re an easy bounty.”

Claude cursed long and thoroughly. Of course. They had their official sails up, trying to avoid attracting any attention from military ships, but he hadn’t thought they’d attract pirates this way. “Can we slip away from them? Maybe still doubling back along the cliffs?”

Wayne shook his head. “They’re faster than we are, you know that. I mean, we can head that way, but it won’t do us any good. Eventually, they’re going to catch us.

“Fuck!” yelled Claude. “We’re not ready! Goddamnit, I thought we’d have more time!” He slammed his fist down onto the box the map was spread across. It hurt like a motherfucker.

“Actually,” said someone behind him. “I might have an idea.” It was Sean, the young man they’d picked up a year or so ago who Claude was trying to train as the next quartermaster. He’d obviously heard the conversation—Claude had probably been yelling loud enough that everyone on deck heard it—and he seemed determined.

“What is it?” Claude demanded.

Sean stepped up to the map. “There’s a current pushing against us right now, and if we drop our sails, we can ride it directly toward the island, before we reach the cliffs. They’ll have trouble changing direction that fast, and we can turn to them and at least get the first attack in before they’re in position.”

Claude stared at the map for a long moment, seeing the movement of the ships in his mind. Then he grinned, and punched Sean in the shoulder. “Keep up the good work,” he said cheerfully, and began yelling commands to the crew.

It had taken too long, too many years and bribes and fruitless interrogations, to let the fuckers who ransacked the Flyer go now.

\-----

They’d barely gotten away, Jakub and Scott were injured, Claude could barely see through the after-images of explosions and gunfire, but. He’d done it. The Steelbird would be fine, her captain unfortunately healthy, but Claude had found her, tracked her down, gotten in several crippling blows, one full broadside of their meager cannons, and escaped to tell the tale.

It wasn’t revenge Claude was after, exactly. Or, it was, but in his own way. He wanted the Steelbird to know him. They’d had time between dropping and re-flying the sails to change the colors and reveal the name on the prow of the ship. The orange flag and gold letters of the Flyer flew again, and Claude was sure the crew of the Steelbird had seen it. It was their turn, hopefully, to track him down the way he had done to them. And when they came looking for him, he’d be ready, or not. That wasn’t the point. He’d made his mark, which was all he had wanted, really.

\-----

“Claude!” There was a banging on the door. Claude groaned, rolling over.

“What?” he yelled back, and got an elbow in the stomach for his trouble.

“Shut up,” his companion muttered, her blond hair getting caught in his mouth as she turned over and yanked the quilt over herself. Claude stumbled out of bed, swearing under his breath as he got up and grabbed a pair of trousers before answering the door, which was still being loudly assailed.

“What is it?” Claude hissed when he opened the door and saw Wayne on the other side.

Wayne didn’t even laugh at his dishevelled state, so it must have been something serious. “There’s two men downstairs asking after you. Say they’re from the Steelbird.”

“Oh shit,” breathed Claude. “How’d they find me? Do they know who you are? Has anyone told them anything?”

Shrugging, Wayne glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t know, but I’d say you’ve got two minutes, at most, before someone says something, or they decide to come look themselves.” Finally sparing a glance down at Claude, Wayne added, “Go put on clothes, for the love of god.”

Claude nearly tripped across the floor trying to grab the rest of his clothing. There was no movement from the bed, so he didn’t bother trying to say goodbye, just hastily shoved his shirt over his head, and jammed his feet into his boots, reaching for his belt and pistol. He shouldn’t need to use it inside, but there was really no guarantee of staying there, and Claude didn’t plan to get caught unarmed.

“Come on,” he muttered to Wayne. “There’s a back stairs.”

Walking as quietly as they could, Claude led Wayne down the stairs past a thoroughly unamused looking older woman carrying a broom.

The stairs came out in the back hallway leading from the kitchen into the main room of the inn. Despite being late morning, there were plenty of folk drinking and talking already. Most of them seemed captivated by the two dark-haired men standing near the empty fireplace.

“My name is Marc-Andre,” one of them was saying. “I sail on the Steelbird, and I’m looking for the captain of the ship calling itself the Flyer. We’ve heard that he might be here, and I might have a little something for anyone who can tell us where we can find him.” The man—Marc-Andre, apparently—winked at the room, and Claude felt a shiver of interest beneath his overwhelming urge to run the fuck away. Rolling his eyes at himself, Claude stepped out of the shadows of the hallway before anyone had a chance to give him up.

“You found me,” he said boldly, stepping further into the common room. “Captain Claude Giroux, of the Flyer. What can I do for you?” Claude couldn’t see Wayne, but he was sure he was holding his face in his hands right now.

The other man spoke up. Strangely enough, both had the same accent as Claude himself did, an oddity in this part of the world. “How are you the captain of the Flyer when it sunk five years ago?” he asked bluntly.

Claude bared his teeth in what could, charitably, be called a grin. “It didn’t sink, actually. The Steelbird raided it and left it for dead, but we managed to limp to a nearby port and the ship was scrapped then. So, when I got my own ship to command, I thought, well, the name was available, and good as any, so I took it back. Seemed only fair.” Marc-Andre hadn’t reacted, that same mildly pleasant smile on his face, but his crewmate had narrowed his eyes at Claude's explanation. “Now, could you tell me why you’re looking for me so we can deal with this and I can go on with my day?”

Marc-Andre inclined his head toward Claude. “Would you mind coming outside with us? Seems a little rude to discuss business over all these people,” he gestured at the room, who was, to a person, listening intently. None of them made any move to stop listening, and Claude nodded.

Kneeling down to lace his boot, Claude looked back at Wayne in the hallway, and whispered, “Head out the back and get down to the ship. I have a feeling we may want to make a quick exit. As long as there’s a skeleton crew, we can always get everyone else after we’re out of the harbor, have them meet us on the other side of the island.” Wayne nodded, and turned to make his way back through the kitchen.

Claude straightened up and headed across the room to stride out of the door ahead of the two men from the Steelbird.

Once they were outside, Claude turned to face them. “What were your names, again? Since you have mine already, and you said we were going to be discussing business.” He put as much disdain as he could muster on the word business.

Marc-Andre nodded politely, and said, “I’m Marc-Andre, and this is Kris. We sail on the Steelbird—”

“I got that much, thanks,” Claude interrupted. “What do you want?”

Kris spoke up, glaring. “You fucking attacked us for no reason, that’s what. We weren’t going to let you get away with that.”

Claude narrowed his eyes. “You weren’t? Neither of you is the captain, if I’m not mistaken. Does he know you’re here?”

Neither of them blinked an eye. Marc-Andre said, “Does it matter? We’re not going to kill you, we just wanted to deliver a warning in person: don’t ever do that again.”

“Why?” Claude challenged, stepping up to him. “It’s what you do to other ships, why can’t I do it to you?”

A hand grabbed his arm, and Kris didn’t break eye contact as he said, “Because we can make life very hard for you and your crew.”

“You gonna make me?” Claude grinned. It would be a disaster if he had to fight them both, but let them make their own assumptions. He’d been itching for a good fight anyway.

Marc-Andre laughed, and Claude again noticed, a little distantly, that he liked the sound of it. In another situation, Claude would probably be trying to make a move of a different sort on him. “We could,” he said, matter-of-fact. “But no. Like I said, we just wanted to deliver a warning.”

“Consider it delivered,” Claude said, mockingly. “Now, do I get to walk away? I might get the wrong idea if you keep holding me like this,” he said to Kris, who rolled his eyes and released his grip on Claude’s arm.

“Fuck you,” Kris said venemously.

Claude shrugged, the adrenaline of getting away with everything giving him a courage he wasn’t sure he deserved, and said, “I mean, if you want, some other time.”

He walked off quickly, heading towards his ship before either of them changed their mind, which meant he didn’t see Marc-Andre smile, or the look that could almost be called calculating on Kris’s face as they watched him walk away.

\-----

Claude groaned as his crew practically dragged him off the Flyer. “It’s fine, I’ll stay with the ship,” he protested futilely.

“No way, Captain,” Sean said, looking very serious, unless you looked at his eyes, which were glittering with amusement. “It’s All Hallow’s Eve, just because you’re a loser, you’re not staying on the damn ship.”

Jakub hooted with laugher as Claude glared, and crowed, “Even Sean knows you’re being stupid!”

Wayne hooked his arm around Claude’s shoulders. “It’s just one night, you can afford to have fun this one time.”

Insulted, Claude retorted, “I have fun plenty! I just don’t like _this_ kind of fun.”

Something appeared over his eyes, and Claude heard Scott say, “We took care of everything, Captain, got you a mask and everything.”

Claude growled, but let Scott tie the mask on with ill-humor. “Do I get to know what kind of a mask, at least?” Jakub pulled a small piece of glass wrapped on the edges with leather out of his pack, and handed it to Claude, already laughing. Tilting the glass one way and another, Claude managed to catch sight of the mask. It resembled a cat, and was almost a perfect match for the color of his hair. Claude huffed, and pulled himself away from the others.

Scott laughed from behind him, and said gleefully, “See, it fits you perfectly!”

Getting away from the docks, and into the bulk of the port town, they began passing others wearing masks and hoods and colorful scarves. A couple of his crew pulled out their own masks, and putting them on, slipped into the crowd to become anonymous. “I hate All Hallow’s,” Claude mumbled.

Wayne clapped him on the shoulder, grinning entirely too much. “You just don’t want to deal with another year of waking up and discovering who it was you slept with. It’s ok, Cap’n, we’ll make sure we’re there to tell you who it was,” he said.

“That’s what I’m worried about,” Claude muttered, but he shook Wayne’s hand off and let himself relax slightly. At least there was always plenty of cheap drink.

\-----

The evening found Claude in a perch at his favorite inn, sipping at his drink and trying to decide if he’d drunk too much or if it actually did taste better than what he’d had earlier. He was interrupted by someone sitting down on the crate next to him, the chairs and benches having been filled far earlier in the evening. Claude didn’t recognize the man, but his eyes caught on the way his arms filled out his shirtsleeves before he looked up to see the man’s face obscured by a fancy-looking mask of leaves.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Claude asked, and hoped it didn’t come across too accusing. He didn’t have the patience for trying to interpret how people chose to dress on All Hallow’s, which was another reason he wasn’t too fond of the day.

The stranger gestured at the long green and brown vest he was wearing and his mask. “I’m the Green Man,” he said, and something about his voice pulled at Claude’s memories, but he couldn’t place it.

Claude raised an eyebrow, his own mask pushed up on to the top of his head long ago. “Seems like a strange choice for a sailor,” he said, looking at the man’s hands, which clearly had the tan and the calluses of a sailor, as well as a bracelet of fraying rope that somehow made the strength of his wrists and forearms stand out even more.

The man seemed to be smiling under his mask, which didn’t quite reach past his mouth. “What, should I have been the spirit of the ocean?”

Claude shrugged. “Dunno, just thought it was different. It’s nice,” he said, vaguely waving a hand at the man, who laughed. It was a nice laugh, Claude thought.

“Not a fan of costumes, yourself, it looks,” he said.

Nodding, Claude said, “Not at all. But I am a fan of drinking,” he said, and raised his cup. The other man made a noise of disapproval.

“I don’t have anything to drink,” he said, and Claude frowned.

“How? It’s everywhere here,” he said, and stood up. “Stay here,” Claude ordered, and made his way across the room, until he found a tray of drinks that had been left abandoned. Peering into them, he found one that seemed full and tasted acceptable, and took it back to where the man was still sitting, seemingly watching him.

“Thanks,” he said as Claude offered him the drink.

“Don’t thank me, just promise you’ll take the fall if someone comes looking for it,” Claude said, grinning as the stranger drank deeply.

“Promise,” he said, his dark eyes searching Claude from behind the mask. Claude was struck but the thought that he really should know who this was, but he couldn’t place him. “So, if you don’t like All Hallow’s, what are you doing here tonight?”

Claude groaned. “Well, my crew dragged me out tonight, because they thought I needed to take a night off. So, here I am, and I intend to drink as much as is fun, drink a little more, and hopefully find someone to spend the night with, and hope I don’t regret it in the morning.”

Claude couldn’t tell what the stranger’s face was doing under the mask, but he seemed to be having some sort of reaction. “Effective,” he finally said.

“Why?” asked Claude, maybe a little belligerently. What was this asshole doing, questioning his plans when Claude had gone out of his way to get him a drink? “You have better plans?”

The stranger smirked. That, Claude could see just fine under the mask, and he swallowed. Obviously, most of the stranger’s face was obscured, but what Claude could see looked very, very good, and he didn’t think it was just the alcohol talking. “Nope,” he said, and licked his lips.

“Well,” Claude said, leaning in towards the stranger a little. It wouldn’t be the worst decision he’d ever made. “Care to join my plans?”

“I think I might,” the man said, sounding amused. “It might take me a while to catch up to you, in drinks at least,” he said.

“I have time,” Claude replied, smiling wider.

\-----

“Are you going to take off the mask, or is this some weird—thing?” Claude asked as they stumbled up the last of the stairs, toward where the stranger said he had a room already.

“No, I’ll take it off, I promise,” the man said, and it sounded like he was laughing at some joke. Claude was missing it. The man stopped outside a room, fishing in his pocket for a key, and then turning to Claude, more serious than he’d been in the last hour they’d spent downstairs drinking and swapping stories. “Would you object to someone else joining us?”

Claude swayed back a little. “Depends who it is,” he said, slowly. “Is this a trick of some sort?”

The stranger smirked. “It might be, but I think you should come with me anyway. You’ll like each other,” he added, and shook his head. “Can’t believe I’m saying that, but it’s true.”

Something tickled the back of Claude’s mind. “Who—” he said, but he didn’t get much more out before the door swung open, revealing—

The memory of the two men from the Steelbird finding him in the inn—this inn, how had he been so stupid—came back to him as he found himself face to face with Marc-Andre, who didn’t look particularly surprised to see him.

“Come in,” he said, warmly, and then, looking past Claude to address the other man, he said, “I didn’t think you’d do it.”

Kris—because Claude had finally managed to remember why his voice had sounded so familiar, and that was absolutely who he’d been flirting with for the past hour—said, a little affronted, “I said I would, didn’t I?” He pushed Claude into the room, and that was when Claude should have turned around, should have left, but he didn’t.

Once they were all three inside, Kris pulled his mask off, and said, “You win, though,” handing over a pouch that clinked with coins to Marc-Andre.

Marc-Andre smirked, which was somehow just as attractive as Kris’s, and said smugly, “I told you.”

Claude looked between the two of them. “Were you betting on me? Why? What’s going on here?”

Kris, with no trace of the menace that Claude remembered from their past encounter on his face, said “I thought we’d get into a fight downstairs. He thought we’d end up here.”

“And here we are,” Marc-Andre said, sitting down on the bed. “So? Still up for it?”

Claude swallowed, feeling caught. He could leave. Neither of them had made a move to stop him, and neither of them seemed likely to. He couldn’t see any weapons nearby, and neither of them had locked the door. But something about their gaze hung on him like a physical tether, keeping him in the middle of the room, trapped between them.

Claude shook his head.

“Good,” purred Kris. “Because I had a lot of thoughts while we were downstairs of what we could do.”

See, this was Claude’s problem with All Hallow’s Eve. Everything felt so unreal all night, the masks and drinks blurring into one dream-like mess. None of this felt real. How could this be happening? Maybe it was a vision. Claude yelped when Marc-Andre poked him in the side.

“You with us?” he said kindly.

Claude’s first urge was to fight back, and he resisted that. Then again, why should he? He pinched Marc-Andre’s side back. “Yeah,” he said, smiling slightly as Marc-Andre drew back and his kind expression transformed into something altogether more dangerous looking.

“Are you going to fight us all night?” he asked Claude.

“If you let me,” Claude said, more honest than he’d ever meant to be.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” muttered Kris from behind him.

Marc-Andre didn’t say anything else, just studied his face, and then grabbed him by the shoulder, nearly throwing him onto the bed. Claude just went with it, the motion exciting something inside him. Claude had become a pirate for many reasons—revenge, money, freedom—but a lot of it had to do with the thrill. There was something about being here, in this room with these two men on this night, that was giving him the same thrill.

Suddenly, Marc-Andre was kneeling over him, and Claude grinned before bucking his hips and flipping them. Marc-Andre’s legs were still around his, but Claude was looming over him, and he didn’t waste any time before pulling down the collar of Marc-Andre’s shirt and starting to suck a mark into his neck.

Claude was occupied, so he missed whatever Kris was doing before he felt a warm body haul him back. Kris was bare-chested and perching on the edge of the bed, one of his broad arms around Claude’s chest. Marc-Andre wriggled free, and stripped off his own shirt, following it with his trousers. Claude licked his lips.

“You’re too dressed,” Marc-Andre remarked, voice casual, but a flush had crept up his chest, and his cock was clearly hard. Before Claude could object, Kris yanked his shirt out of his pants, and Claude pulled it the rest of the way off, not taking any care with where his arms went. He was pretty sure he caught Kris’s chin with his elbow, but Kris didn’t complain, just wrapped one hand around Claude’s face, and roughly turned his head so that Kris could lick into his mouth. It was almost too sloppy, too rough to be a kiss, and Claude moaned into it. Kris started to rearrange them, calm the kiss down and make it more comfortable. That wasn’t what Claude wanted. Opening his eyes, he bit down on Kris’s lip.

“What the fuck?” Kris yelped, and Claude grinned at him. “Fine,” he said, with a look in his eye that made Claude shudder, caught between trepidation and anticipation.

Claude was still half tangled up in Kris, so it was easy for him to grab Claude’s arms, and pull him back on the bed, stretching him out. Marc-Andre went for Claude’s belt, pulling it out and his trousers down, leaving Claude naked and splayed out on the bed. Claude tried to wrestle his arms out from Kris’s grip, but it was solid. Claude relished in the burn of his muscles as Kris said, “Now what?”

Marc-Andre didn’t say anything, just levered himself into place over Claude’s shoulders, his cock tantalizingly close to Claude’s mouth. “This okay?” he said, looking down at Claude.

“If you trust me,” Claude said, taunting. “I did just bite him,” he jerked his chin up at Kris, who was kneeling behind his head to keep the leverage on his arms.

“No, you’re going to be good for me,” Marc-Andre declared. “Because it’s the only way you’ll get what you want from us.” Claude felt his cock jerk with interest, and knew he was even more caught than he had been earlier. Marc-Andre patted his shoulder. “Good boy,” he said, and gripped Claude’s chin to open his mouth up for Marc-Andre’s cock.

Claude didn’t usually admit it, but he liked doing this. It wasn’t that he was ashamed, because he was proud of things he was good at, and as he tilted his head back to get a better angle and Marc-Andre groaned, he thought smugly that he was still very good. It was more that it just wasn’t a thing he talked about. Looking up at the view of Marc-Andre’s lean body shifting as he fucked into Claude’s mouth, and Kris’s corded muscles as he held Claude’s wrists down, Claude wondered if maybe he really should talk about it more often if it could lead to this.

He may have lost track of time a little, wrapped up in the sensations of Marc-Andre’s cock in his mouth, and the tension of pushing back against Kris’s hands holding him down, and the feel of the bed and the sounds that Kris was making as he watched, and the low muttered commentary from Marc-Andre. Claude barely understood it, but he wasn’t trying, just letting himself get pulled into the moment.

Before long, Marc-Andre groaned, long and low. “I’m going to come,” he warned. Claude made no attempt to move, and Marc-Andre came down his throat moments later. He flopped off Claude to one side, and Claude coughed, wiping his mouth on his arm when Kris let go.

“Fuck,” said Kris, and he sounded impressed.

Claude preened a little before sitting up, rolling his shoulders. Looking at Kris, he said, “Now what?”

Kris just shrugged. “If you want someone to tell you what to do, ask him,” he said, and nodded at Marc-Andre, who was watching them with interest. “That’s his thing.” Marc-Andre winked lazily.

Claude smiled. “Then what’s your thing?”

Kris’s eyes darkened, and he leaned forward, searching Claude over. He stopped at Claude’s hip, and reached out to lay his hand on a bruise there, where Claude had been thrown against the railing of the Flyer during a storm they’d weathered on their way back here. Claude made no move to stop it, and Kris pressed down on the bruise. It wasn’t a sharp pain, but dull and spread-out and insistent. Claude didn't often mix pain and pleasure, but the focus and intensity that Kris was giving him was incredibly appealing. He wanted more of it.

Spreading one hand against Kris’s chest, Claude pushed him back until he was half leaning back against the wall. Rising to his knees, Claude straddled Kris so that their cocks rubbed together. “You can keep doing that if you do something for me,” Claude bargained. Kris rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.

“What do you want?”

“Your fingers,” Claude said, almost surprising himself with his boldness.

Kris nodded, and then looked back at Marc-Andre. “Marc?”

“I got it,” he said, and Claude craned his neck to watch where Marc-Andre grabbed a small bottle that he unstoppered and passed to Kris. He winked at Claude. “I’ll help.”

Kris shook some of the contents of the bottle onto his hand, and rubbed it around until his fingers glistened with some sort of oil. Reaching around Claude, he rubbed a finger over Claude’s hole, and Claude grabbed Kris’s shoulder so he didn’t tip over.

If earlier, Claude had been overwhelmed with too many sensations, this was the opposite. He felt like his whole world narrowed to Kris’s finger teasing at his entrance, and then pushing in, slowly, and then faster. Claude felt another hand on his ass, and realized that Marc-Andre was spreading him out for Kris, which made Claude groan.

Kris worked his fingers in, not trying to open him up as some men Claude had been with before had done, just using two fingers and getting them deep, twisting them around until he found the spot that made Claude cry out. He only found it every so often, not consistently, but that was almost better, because Claude never knew what to brace for. His fingernails were digging into the meat of Kris’s shoulder, and Claude was certain he’d leave marks of some kind. Periodically, Kris would press on that same bruise on his hip with his other hand, and at some point, Marc-Andre moved up behind Claude, supporting them.

It freed up Claude’s other hand, and he wrapped his hand around where his and Kris’s cocks were rubbing against each other as they both shifted. Kris made a choked noise in his throat, and his fingers moved erratically.

There was a moment where all three of them moved against each other, and Claude had a flash of clarity that he knew he’d remember this for a very long time. Not more than a few seconds after that, he came, gripping Kris’s shoulder even tighter, and Kris followed after shortly.

Marc-Andre helped arrange them almost comfortably on the bed and each other. Claude raised an eyebrow at him as he left the bed to put out the lamp. “Worry in the morning,” Marc-Andre advised.

\-----

“Don’t assume this means I’ll go easy on you if we see each other on the sea,” Claude warned, putting his boots back on.

Kris snorted. “Same to you,” he said, something glinting in his eyes.

Marc-Andre rolled his eyes at both of them. “More importantly, can I assume you’ll want to do this if we see each other not on the sea?”

Claude knew he should think about it, should make sure they weren’t somehow tricking him, should at least make them wait until he saw them again. Instead, grabbing the ridiculous cat mask from where it lay abandoned by the doorway, he nodded. “Next time,” he said, and walked out of the room.

Closing the door behind him, Claude slipped down the stairs, and ran into Wayne in the common room.

Grinning widely, Wayne asked, “So? How bad did it go this year?”

“The worst,” Claude answered, smiling just as wide, and thinking of what he wanted to do next time.

**Author's Note:**

> come talk to me about pirates or very niche ships on twitter at steelinstories, on dreamwidth at steelinmystories, and tumblr at topcopbobrovsky!


End file.
